


ache

by Greenflares



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Minor Injuries, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenflares/pseuds/Greenflares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Eren, but I’m not a fragile flower," Jean said, the words rushing out of him before he could decide whether or not they were fit for human consumption. "I don’t know what it is you’re worried about, but I don’t think you can fuck me hard enough to break anything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	ache

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be something but then I was like, hey, why not write sex instead? And now here we are.

 

They only had a week before they were going back beyond the walls, back to the mission and the titans and the hell that came with them. A countdown had already started in Jean’s head: a giant hourglass was draining of sand and each granule was a second wasted, a second gone. They only had a week.

He found the room they’d put Eren in as though he’d been drawn there magnetically, or as though Eren himself had given him a map. He knocked once, just a formality, and then slid inside before he could be noticed lingering suspiciously.

“You took your sweet fucking time,” Eren breathed, meeting him halfway and catching the fabric of his shirt in his hand and _pulling_. He kissed Jean with a hardness that was typical of frantic, fast-paced moments that more often than not were shared in linen closets or at the well when they were pretending to collect water.

Jean broke away, murmured, “We have a week.”

“It’s been two months,” Eren countered, and Jean’s chest ached at the reminder. “Two months and we’ve kissed three times at most.”

A few times, too few to count, they’d found each other late at night and had shared the quickest of kisses. It hadn’t been enough though, not nearly, and it had only made Jean miss what they had all the more and it left him twice as frustrated as he’d been to begin with.

Seven days was long enough for more than kisses, and it wasn’t difficult for Jean to understand Eren’s enthusiasm. Seven days of free time to spend together after two months of strict supervision and duty was like an oasis out in the desert. Jean stared at Eren and drank in his presence like a man parched for it.

Eren looked tired and worn, like a man who’d spent two months waging a war against a tireless enemy. He had dark shadows around his eyes, a gift from nights spent wide awake, and he held himself with stooped shoulders as though his bones were brittle and he was near collapse. Jean could remember with startling clarity how he’d looked when they’d first met – back when they were cocky children, their lives spread before them, infinite.

“You look dead on your feet,” Jean decided.

Eren let go of his shirt and carded his fingers through his hair instead, his hand visibly shaking as he did. “So do half the force,” he replied, deflecting. His eyes flickered over Jean, taking in his face, his body, the bare expanse of his forearms where Jean had rolled up his sleeves. “You look alright,” he said, a hint of joking reluctance to his tone that made Jean smirk.

He took a step closer to Eren, almost fitting their chests flat against one another. Eren’s breath was gentle in the air between them, and from such a close distance Jean could breathe in the smell of him – the soft, fruity scent of his hair, freshly washed; the clean, laundered scent of his new clothes.

Eren tipped his head up to look at him and his expression was needy and uncertain, as though he desperately wanted to grab hold of Jean and start, wanted to tear him open like a gift, but didn’t know where to begin. Jean knew the feeling intimately, knew it presently, and felt the ache of their proximity deep in his chest where Eren’s absence had been most prominent. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to savour the night or if he wanted to rush in head-first, everything else be damned.

Jean’s decision was made for him when Eren closed the distance between them so that his lips grazed softly against Jean’s lower lip. His eyes were bright and sharp with want, and Jean decided that he’d waited long enough, thank you very fucking much.

“God,” he groaned, and then he pressed his lips to Eren’s and curled a hand around the back of his neck, holding him against himself. Eren returned the kiss, his lips parting and his tongue running hot and electric against Jean’s lower lip. He pressed the warm palm of his hand against Jean’s chest to steady himself, and a pleasant shudder thrilled its way down Jean’s spine.

They broke shakily apart and Jean’s fingers went quickly to his shirt, working nimbly at the buttons. He fumbled a little, desperation making him rush, and Eren breathed laughter into the skin of his throat. The fabric dropped to the floor with a soft sound, and then Jean took a step away from Eren before he caught the hem of his undershirt and pulled it up –

His shirt wasn’t even past his head when Eren’s breath caught in the sharp, sudden way that it always did.

Jean continued, peeling his shirt off and throwing it to the floor with the first.

The gasp was familiar to him now, even if it had once been something new and exciting – if only for a brief second. It was old now, old and painful. The first time they’d been together, the first time Jean had taken a breath and undressed in front of him, Eren had made that same small and breathy sound and Jean had thought that maybe Eren was impressed by his body. It wasn’t a completely stupid idea – Jean was a masterpiece, after all, a real Adonis – but no, he was wrong.

Eren’s sharp intake of breath signalled the precise moment his eyes met the dark lines that ran over Jean’s skin, lines that were coloured in varying shades of pain. Some were ancient shades of green and blue and purple, whereas others were fresh pinks and reds, blistering and new against the pale complexion of his skin.

The thing was, his 3D manoeuvre gear came with its downsides, and the most obvious of which was the physical toll it took upon his body. There were welts and bruises criss-crossing his pale skin like a shadow of his straps and harness, with the lines worn deep into his flesh with age and use.

The first few times, back when he was new and fresh and green behind the ears, the straps had cut into his skin until blood had beaded in thin lines. He’d had vicious welts that had stung and burned and he’d winced with his every step.

Now, though – now his skin was tough where the straps pressed firmly against his skin. He was calloused and rough, his skin thicker, harder, stronger. It wouldn’t be long before he ceased marking at all. Soon it would only be the scars that remained.

Yet despite that, despite the way they had been there since the beginning and that everyone in the force had them, Eren had always been fascinated – horrified, even. If Jean had to guess he’d say that it was the way Jean was so easily injured that made Eren’s face pale and his lips come to such an uncharacteristic standstill. It scared him, Jean figured, to see human mortality in action.

Eren reached a hand out and pressed his palm to Jean’s sternum, his fingertips just barely brushing against the welted line that ran across Jean’s chest. He looked up at him and his eyes quiet and stormy. “You look a little worse for wear.”

Jean glanced down at himself, his eyes flickering from Eren’s hand – slightly darker complexion compared to Jean’s own – to the welts and bruises from his straps – familiar, recognisable, not a matter for concern – to the other scratches and grazes and bruises that he’d gained over the past two months – yeah, okay, that was probably enough to get Eren’s breath to catch.

Eren lowered his hand and ran the pad of his thumb gently over a freshly healed cut by his navel, one that had taken three stitches to sew back together. “Christ, Jean,” he murmured. “Are you in pain?”

He wet his lips and considered the question before he allowed himself to shrug. He supposed that the welts and bruises did hurt, in a way, but after a while it became hard to notice the ache when it had been there for so long, constantly raging in the back of his mind. It was background noise to him now, something he tuned out from habit. He was used to the marks and the cuts and the stitches and the welts, even if Eren wasn’t.

Jean sighed and curled his fingers around Eren’s wrist, caught it from where Eren was tracing idly over his wounds, and he pointedly slid Eren’s hand further down his stomach towards the waistband of his pants. He was past being shy, past the polite chit-chat and exchanges that could wait until after. They didn’t have long, only a week, and they’d wasted so much time already, and they’d waited so long, so incredibly fucking long. Eren could play nurse whenever he liked, whenever they had the time to spare.

“It’s okay,” Jean said quietly, “I’m fine.” Eren looked at him with doubtfulness, but Jean continued, “C’mon, Eren, god only knows when we’ll get this much time to ourselves again.” The hourglass in his head was emptying more and more by the second.

Eren wore at his lip with his teeth before he let out a sigh. “I know,” he agreed, and he curled his fingers through the belt loops of Jean’s pants and tugged a little, just letting his presence be known. “I know, I know, I know,” he chanted quietly. “It’s just – it takes me by surprise, every fucking time,” he said, his eyes back on the marks that littered Jean’s torso, “and I guess I should have expected you to be a little battered after two months, but still--”

Jean shook his head sharply. “Save that for later,” he said. “Let’s stay on track. Are you going to take your clothes off, or what?”

Eren’s breath gusted out of him in a burst of surprised laughter. “Pushy,” he remarked, as though he was in any position to throw that kind of accusation about, and then he reeled himself in so that their lips met again. It was quick this time, a kiss to draw the discussion of injuries to an end, to signify that all Serious Talk was to be left at the door.

Eren pulled away and with one last lingering look at Jean’s chest, at the long, thin marks and the varied cuts and grazes that marred his skin, he gave up on the whole concerned mother routine and tore his clothes off with enthusiasm, leaving his bare skin exposed.

Jean had never been a self-conscious person – didn’t even feel doubt about himself now that he was apparently scarred enough for Eren to gasp at the sight of him – but he was never as aware of his faults and scars as he was when Eren was naked in front of him, ripe and ready for comparison.

Eren’s skin was flawless and intact, unmarked and unmarred, completely untouched. His skin was even in tone, though slightly darker than Jean’s own pale complexion, and it lacked the dark welts and bruises that made it impossible for Jean to ever _really_ remove his 3D harness.

Eren’s regenerative ability was most obvious when Jean took in his hands. His hands, which were so frequently torn and pierced by his sharp teeth, were entirely unblemished and clear and without so much as a callous. Eren looked as though he’d never had an injury in his life.

He took a step closer and placed his hand at Eren’s waist and ran it along his side appreciatively. He felt the ridges of his ribs and the expansion of his lungs from under the palm of his hand. They kissed again, their lips soft and malleable and smooth; they were gentler with each other now, comforted by the promise of time. The hourglass in Jean’s head had faded away, pushed into the background noise with the stinging of his cuts and the aches of his bruises.

Eren breathed heavily against the curve of Jean’s jaw and his hands scrambled for purchase on Jean’s shoulders. “Bed,” he growled, his lips insistent against the skin of his jaw, his throat, “fuck, Jean, the bed.”

Jean was quite certain he’d never heard anything as erotic as Eren when he was breathless and dizzy and desperate for him, for his hands and his mouth and his body. It made Jean’s head spin with the improbability of it all.

They staggered across the small room to the bed, their legs tangling together as they went, walking as one. Jean shoved his pants out of the way, stepping out of them with stumbling legs, and they fell into the bed in a mess of limbs and quiet laughter. Their mouths met again, hotter this time. Eren ignited the blood in his veins.

Jean was underneath him and Eren rested on top, a heavy, comforting weight that sent sparks of arousal to Jean’s groin. Jean’s body ached sometimes, like when Eren was a little too rough, a little too excited – when his fingers scraped thoughtlessly down his chest, aggravating the welts, or when he pushed too heavily against him and the weight of it awakened an ache in Jean’s arm, one that had come to life after lifting too many corpses into the cart.

“I’ve missed this,” Eren groaned, their hips flushed together and their faces red and hot and shining with perspiration. “I know it sounds stupid, because it’s not as though we’ve defined this – this _thing_ between us – and it’s not like we were miles apart these past two months and never saw each other, but god, Jean, I’ve really fucking missed you.”

Eren’s face was hanging close above him. His hair was a little in his eyes – it had grown an inch or two and it was nearly shaggy now – and his skin was sweaty and flushed, but there was something there. His lips shook with each rasping breath he took. His pupils were so blown that his eyes seemed black. His chest pushed against Jean’s as he breathed. They were so close.

Jean’s breath fell away. “Me too,” he said shakily, feeling as though he’d just dropped ten feet from the sky. “I missed you.”

Eren grinned widely, his teeth flashing bright in the closeness between them. Jean felt sick, almost, like he’d just handed Eren his insides and asked him to look after them for him.

It was strange, though, how he didn’t care. With each breath and each look at Eren and each roll of their hips together, he felt better. He caught himself smiling.

“Jean,” Eren groaned, biting at the curve of his neck and shoulder, “Jean, Christ.”

“Come on,” Jean groaned decisively, pushing a little at Eren’s chest, knowing he’d feel it and lift himself, “come on, I want you.” Eren rolled off him to the side and Jean flipped himself over to his hands and knees. “Lube?” he asked, shooting a heated look at Eren who stared back at him with glazed eyes and a smile.

“Lube,” he repeated dumbly, and then, “lube, yes, okay, yeah.”

There was lube in Eren’s duffel bag which sat quietly in the corner of the otherwise impersonal room. Eren found it and launched himself back on to the bed with abundant enthusiasm. Jean listened to the click of the cap being removed, the cool slick sound of Eren squeezing it on to his fingers, and then –

“Shit, Jean, how’d you hurt your shoulder?”

He let out a sigh and hung his head miserably. “Fucking hell,” he breathed. He’d forgotten about that one.

Eren’s fingers – cool and slick with lubricant – prodded unnecessarily at what Jean knew to be a large bruise across his left shoulder and part of his back. It hadn’t hurt in weeks, but the stain still remained upon him.

He felt Eren’s breath against the back of his neck, felt it cold against his feverish skin.

“I hit a tree,” he admitted, thankful that he didn’t have to face Eren as he admitted it. “My gear failed, I fell, and I hit a tree. I knocked my shoulder pretty badly.” He supposed he’d dislocated it or something, but at any rate he’d fixed it himself. He’d pushed it back into place with a very manly scream and only a little swearing, and he’d been fine. The only issue he had with the injury was the bruising, which even he could admit was kind of… extreme.

Eren’s fingers ghosted over the dark bruising, the exact size of which Jean wasn’t yet sure of. It wasn’t as though they carried mirrors with them out beyond the walls. He knew only of what he could glimpse when he twisted his neck and peered behind him.

“Eren,” he said, “I’m fine, alright?” He turned so he could look at him and meet his eyes. Eren looked at him like he might have looked at an injured puppy, and it made Jean want to punch him in the jaw and then kill ten titans all at once, just to prove he could.

He glanced at Jean’s shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t--”

“Don’t even say it,” Jean breathed, shutting his eyes in denial of everything that was happening around him. “Nope. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare.”

“You’re all bruised and injured, Jean, and I don’t want to hurt--”

Jean’s eyes opened with such ferocity that he was certain he’d just broken an eyelid or popped a blood vessel something. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Eren, but I’m not a fragile flower,” he said heatedly, the words rushing out of him before he could think about it, before he could turn his thoughts over in his head and decide whether or not they were fit for human consumption. “I don’t know what it is you’re worried about, but I don’t think you can fuck me hard enough to break anything.” He paused thoughtfully. “Well. Not in this form.”

Eren’s face erupted with heat. “Jean,” he croaked.

“It’s been two months, Eren,” he whined, and he’d gone from sounding like a strong, independent man who was in charge of his own sexuality and desires, to a spoiled, petulant child who felt deprived. “ _Two months_ ,” he stressed with wide eyes, “and all I’ve known is my own god damn hand!” He raised it in testament. “I feel like a fucking _monk_.”

Eren blushed even redder. “I know,” he murmured, “me too, but you have to see where I’m coming from, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Jean assured him, “but you’re worrying about nothing. I’m fine, you won’t hurt me, and I want this.” He wet his lips and leaned forward a little, putting himself into Eren’s personal space and making himself known. “I want you to fuck me, Eren,” he said, and he thrilled in the way Eren’s lips dropped open. “I’ve thought about it for two months pretty much non-stop, so trust me when I say that _I need you to fuck me already._ ”

“Christ,” he breathed, voice groggy and eyes glazed over with a shine that was directed at Jean alone. “I – uh – I guess if you’re sure—?”

Jean glared daggers at him. “How the hell can you still doubt me on this?” he demanded, and before Eren could think of any other reasons why they ought to waste more time being unnecessarily chaste, he reached in and curled his hand around the back of his neck. He looked at him, asking for permission, before Eren nodded and met him halfway.

Eren’s lips were hot and insistent against his own and Jean’s breath came quick and frantic as Eren’s hands slid over his skin. He touched him as though Jean’s body was unlike his own, as though Jean’s chest held secrets he had to discover, as though the flat plane of his stomach was entirely new to him, as though his waist and his arms and his hips and his thighs were all a thing of beauty, all worthy of study and appreciation and worship.

He turned himself over, ready and more than willing. He breathed heavily and tried to calm himself down, tried to give himself longer. Eren placed a hand at the nape of his neck and slowly ran it down the ridges of his spine, over the welts of his straps and the cuts and bruises that came as a part of his job. He ran his palm down the dip of the small of his back, and then he reached his ass. His hand ran gently over his ass cheeks, his touch teasingly light, before it trailed between his legs and smoothly down his thighs, only brushing absently at his balls and cock as he went. Jean’s breathing grew heavier and he widened his legs, wanting – needing – god – _anything_.

“I swear, Eren,” he started, voice weak, “if you don’t fuck me within the next minute, I’ll make you wish you were still out there with the titans.”

Eren laughed quietly from behind him, a snicker if anything, and Jean grinned around his heavy panting. He wanted him, wanted him so badly it felt like a sickness. He wondered when it had gotten so bad – if it had been during the two months of solitude, or if it had been a gradual thing. When had they stopped meeting in bathroom stalls and empty training rooms? What had happened? When did their – their _thing_ turn into something so heated? When did they start to kiss so much? When did Jean start to miss him when he wasn’t around?

Eren’s hand returned and this time his fingers were slick with lube. He pressed a cold fingertip to Jean’s asshole and held it there. Jean’s breath caught, a natural reaction, but Eren made a quiet sound – a soothing hum.

“Come on,” Eren said, urging him on, and Jean wanted to laugh, wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, wanted to tell him he didn’t need any god damn fucking encouragement, but instead he took a breath and pushed himself backwards onto his finger, thrilling when all Eren could do was shudder and gasp and swallow audibly.

“Come on,” Jean echoed, and Eren’s returning laugh was shaky and tight and perfect. His finger pushed deeper and Jean ground against it, taking it even though it ached just a little, like it always did to start with, before Eren would –

Sparks shuddered inside him and his dick throbbed as Eren crooked his finger with finesse, flicking the switch that made fireworks ignite in his veins and sizzle like flashbulbs behind his eyelids.

“F-Fuck,” he stammered in a thick voice. Eren’s finger slotted in and out of him, the dragging sensation and the feeling of fullness no longer uncomfortable but almost wonderful, nearing ecstasy.

Eren’s finger was moving faster within him, pressing the same sweet spot over and over, making Jean squirm with arousal. When he removed his finger the sudden absence was startling and he whined low and pathetic in the back of his throat before Eren coated his fingers with lube again, more this time, and returned to his entrance with two fingers instead of one.

The ache was more persistent and lasted longer, lingering even after Eren found his prostate again, but Jean knew the pay-off, knew it and was waiting for it.

“Two months,” he babbled when Eren was up to three fingers and his body was alive with the static feeling of arousal, of tight need. “How did we – _fuck_ – how did we fucking last two months without – _fuck_ – this?”

Eren rubbed the small of his back with his free hand and murmured, “Shh, shh…”

Jean wanted to snap something at him about how he could babble mindlessly if he wanted to, but then Eren’s fingers hit that spot inside of him again and it was all Jean could do to stay conscious. His vision was sparking at the edges, and it had been an incredibly long two months, and he was surprised he’d even made it this long without losing control and coming all over himself like the awkward teenager he thought he’d outgrown.

“Eren,” he growled, twisting his neck in a failed attempt at meeting his eyes, “Eren, I need you to fuck me already. I need you inside me before I fucking pass out. I need your dick already.”

Thankfully Eren didn’t need telling twice, and as soon as his fingers were removed it was his cock that was pressing against him, bigger than three fingers, longer than three fingers, but just what he wanted. Eren settled a hand on his hip to stabilise himself and Jean felt a shiver run down his skin at the touch.

“You’re okay?” Eren asked, because he was nothing if not stubbornly persistent.

“I won’t be if you don’t _hurry the fuck up and fuck me,_ ” he replied with sincerity, and Eren entered him with a steady, fluid thrust that knocked the breath right out of Jean’s lungs.

Eren’s hands were on both of his hips, his fingers curling and digging into the flesh, and he pushed slowly until he was entirely inside Jean. “Fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, Jean. Are you – holy fuck – Are you alright?”

Jean swallowed thickly and wet his lips and fought for coherency before he managed, “I swear to god, Jaeger, I’ll kick your fucking ass if you don’t—”

Eren thrust into him and found his prostate in one smooth motion that left Jean verging on collapse. He clenched the bed sheets in his hands and dropped his head forward, his body threatening to go limp from the sensations that were overwhelming him. Whether it was the two months without it that was making it so good, or just – god only knew what – but it was – holy fuck it was – there was nothing – holy fuck it was just –

Jean arched into his touch, pressed back against his pelvis, rocked with him, went with the rhythm of Eren’s thrusts. His breath came in short, desperate rasps. He wanted more, wanted what he’d spent so long without.

_Two months_ , he thought. _Two months, two months, two months, months without this, without him._

Eren’s breathing was ragged, as was Jean’s, and it was so easy to forget that his body hurt, that his chest was sore and his lungs were weary. He didn’t care that he hadn’t slept in twenty hours, or that his last meal had been watered down soup with stale bread. It was easy to forget that he was worn thin. Nothing mattered, nothing was important now. It was always so easy when he was with Eren.

Having Eren inside him had always been an experience – they’d been each other’s first time, after all, although that hadn’t exactly gone to plan – and somehow things had progressed to the stage where Jean was certain there was no better sex to be had anywhere within the walls. Eren knew him from the inside out – Eren knew that his mouth on his throat made him shiver, and that he liked it from behind. Eren knew what he liked, knew what he didn’t – Eren knew him, somehow, just like Jean knew him. Somewhere along the line they’d actually become something.

Jean gasped and keened when Eren thrust within him, when he pushed at the right angle and sent sparks through his body, through his veins. He rocked back against Eren with increasing enthusiasm as the rhythm of his hips quickened. He struggled to breathe, to keep his head straight, to keep himself from babbling and letting everything out that he knew was better kept in.

“Jean,” Eren gasped, and his fingers dug bruises into the pale skin that stretched thing over his hipbones, “Jean, Jean, Jean, Jean, please, god, look at you, Jean, Jean, Jean.”

“Eren,” he said brokenly, his vision swimming as he grew closer, as his groin tightened and his stomach clenched and his body tensed with the anticipation and Eren just kept moving, kept taking him, kept hitting the spot inside him, the place that sent fireworks along his nerves, Eren, Eren’s hands on his hips, Eren’s breath on his skip, Eren –

“Wanted you so badly,” Eren murmured, thick and mindless, his thrusts growing eratic as he grew closer, his hand leaving Jean’s hip so he could curl it around Jean’s cock instead, jerking him quickly with a smooth palm, his finger running over the slit –

Jean clenched at the sheets and gasped Eren’s name, said it hoarsely over and over again. “Eren,” he cried, “fuck, Eren, god, yes, Eren—”

His orgasm took him whole. His vision swam and faded to a prickly black, and his limbs shook and went weak, threatening to flatten him to the mattress and leave him crumpled and weak. He felt as much as heard Eren come with him, felt the pulse of his orgasm and the way his hand gripped vice-tight at his hipbone. He gasped Jean’s name loud enough that Jean almost worried. He pulled out, leaving an ache in his place, and collapsed beside him on the bed.

Eren was conscious enough to press their mouths together, to kiss him with the soft, sleepy kind of warmth that would have frightened Jean if he’d been coherent enough to care. Instead he kissed him back, carefree and sated.

 

\--

 

Jean's body ached thoroughly, in his limbs and his neck and his ass, and when he raised the blankets and peered down at himself it wasn't hard to make out the dark bruises that now marked his hipbones in the precise shape of Eren's fingers. He pressed the pad of his thumb against one of the dark blotches and sucked back a harsh hiss of pain.

Despite the pain – or maybe because of the pain? – the marks were fucking hot. Jean was man enough to admit it.

Beside him Eren stirred. Jean watched as he yawned and stretched out against the bed like a cat, all stiff limbs and bed hair and pink cheeks. He let out a long breath through his nose and then rolled on to his side so that his face was pressed into Jean's arm.

“Morning,” Jean said with amusement.

“Mmrng,” Eren managed.

It was almost nine. “We have six days left,” he announced, the hourglass still running in his mind. The sand was falling and time was disappearing and soon they'd return to duty and sex and kissing and touching and  _Eren_ would officially be off the menu for god knew how long.

Eren’s hand came up. He held it out, palm facing upwards, and kept it there until Jean realised he was waiting for him. He placed his hand in Eren’s and Eren tightly meshed their fingers together. He ran his finger over Jean's grazed knuckles carefully.

“Six days,” he murmured, audibly turning the time constraint over in his head as he rubbed his finger against Jean's skin, “I think we can handle that.”


End file.
